The rocks poke out into the surf
Prodding, like an outstretched finger
Splitting the waves, ploughing them apart
Driving itself between them
The water submits,
Its foamy crests swirling past on either side
Before shattering against the shore,
Rocks grown green and spongy with algae,
Slippery and waterlogged underfoot.
Gaggles of elderly women recline
against the iron rail,
their grandchildren scrambling under
and overtop it,
crawling like crabs across the jagged breakwater,
the bravest diving in and wrestling
against the current.
A pair, locked in an embrace,
the waves bursting all around them.
A father and son fish from the safety
of the walkway,
Concrete making the peninsula navigable
For those less adventurous
than the scrabbling children
Who congregate below on thin outcroppings,
Barely enough space to kneel on,
Even on their small knees.
By night one lamppost illuminates the strip,
Benches bathed in white light,
Mirroring the moon which hangs low
and luminous,
Stars shimmering like the schools of silver fish you can see by day,
And the children always perched with their toes in the tide,
And the amateur fishermen, grandmothers,
tourists
Always looking out into the blue swell,
And the water – cold, blue, eternal,
cleaning, renewing,
Crashing and breaking against the rocks.